Playtime
by Alive At Last
Summary: When a severed finger is sent to Mac Taylor, it sets in motion everything he wished for, and everything he wished against. But how did a finger from the same person get all the way down in the hands of Gil Grissom?


**Playtime  
****Summary: **When a severed finger is sent to Mac Taylor, it sets in motion everything he wished for, and everything he wished against. But how did a finger from the same person get all the way down in the hands of Gil Grissom?  
**A/N:** My first attempt at a cross-over of CSI and CSI:NY. It started as just CSI:NY but I've always wanted to do a cross-over.  
And a little explination:  
-Mac Taylor is shirtless because he had just gotten out of the shower and had forgotten his shirt in his bedroom. (and I just like picturing Gary Sinise shirtless...guilty as charged)  
-This is set before Gil left the crime lab. Honestly, CSI just isn't the same without him.  
-I like thinking that since Mac lived in Chicago and that Gil went to college at the University of Chicago, they probably met one time or another. (just like how both Catherine and Lindsay are from Bozeman, Montana)

* * *

It was dark, the chill of the mid-winter night seeping through the house. Desperately, the inhabitant curled in a large quilt to trap heat. Claire had made the quilt some odd years ago. For some reason, the ex-marine couldn't sleep. He sat on the couch, watching the muted television. It was the news; nothing interesting. Just another cold winter night to him. He needed to get some sleep, though, because he had shift in the morning. Finally he turned off the television and decided to try to get some sleep. As Mac rose to his feet, clutching the quilt around him and began to head for his bedroom, there was a soft knock at his door. It was surprising, considering the time of night it was. Mac slowly dropped the quilt, the chill hitting his shirtless figure, and grabbed his gun which was positioned on the coffee table.

Slowly, he made his way to the door with the gun tucked in the front of the flannel night pants. Before opening the door, he pressed his ear to the door, hoping to hear voices to get an idea of who it was. He heard nothing. Mac stepped back and opened the door cautiously. Once it was fully open, it revealed… no one. _Odd_, Mac thought to himself, sticking his head out and glancing around. Then he spotted the box on his stoop. It was just a simple cardboard box, the opening taped shut and a letter with 'Mac Taylor' scribbled on the front. Mac lightly kicked the side of the box, hearing the slush and crunch of what seemed to be slowly melting ice. So he bent down and listened closely to the box, listening for a ticking of a bomb. Again, nothing. Slowly, Mac ripped the tape from the box and opened it.

Inside was indeed ice, slightly melted. Probably from the heater of a car. The bottom of the box was wet, which confirmed his theory. From the dim light of the street lights and passerby cars, the detective spotted the pinkish, almost rusty tint to the ice. It smelled of blood. With his brows furrowed, the ex-marine picked the box up and took it inside, closing the door with a slight _thud_.

The sink was plugged and the ice was dumped into the sink, water and all. Mac pulled a pair of gloves from his crime scene kit and put them on before digging through the generous amount of ice. Finally he found it; a severed finger. It appeared to be severed at the third digit with a clean, smooth blade. It also appeared to be a woman's finger, most likely the ring finger due to size. There was a small groove in the flesh, like a ring had been worn on it for a long time. Wedding ring, Mac thought. Mac took a glass from the cabinet and scooped some of the ice into the cup, then placed the finger inside. Setting that aside, he began to rifle through the ice again, searching for a ring.

It was at the bottom of the sink. His fingertips grasped it and he pulled it out. Turning toward the light, he held it at an angle to see if a name was carved on the inside of the band. As he was searching, he found a familiarity about it. Finally he found the name and read it carefully. Immediately, he froze and almost dropped it.

Inside the band was written, _"Claire Conrad Taylor."_ Mac reread it, seeing if he had made a mistake, but each time he reread it, it said the same thing: _"Claire Conrad Taylor." _He felt the color drain from his face and his hands begin to shake. This time the ring did fall to the floor with a soft _plink_.

Mac regained his composure after a few long moments. He hurriedly picked up the box and took the letter still taped to the front. He tore open the letter in desperation and jerked the letter from the envelope. Once it was opened, in typed, bold print, it read:

**Dear Detective,  
****Let the playtime begin.**

That was it. No signature. It was printed on plain, white paper. The lettering on the envelope was written, but he didn't recognize it. It was very neatly written, as if someone took time to write it.

"What is this…?" Mac asked breathlessly.

----------

"Sir, this came for you."

Gil glanced up at the man holding a brown, cardboard box. The man walked in when the doctor gestured for him to bring it in. He removed his glasses and set down his pet, then extended his hands for the package. It was handed over easily, and the man quickly fled to distribute more packages. The package wasn't heavy. He shook it lightly, feeling that there was another box on the inside. On the top was a letter titled, "Gilbert Grissom." Gil removed the letter, tearing into the envelope and removing the paper inside. He opened it and read the bold, typed print:

**Dear Doctor,  
****Let the playtime begin.**

For a moment, Gil eyed it, rubbing his eye from fatigue. _Odd_, he thought, setting the paper down. The aging man cut the tape from the top of the box, which revealed a small cooler that could hold maybe a six-pack of beer or something of that same size. He took it out and shook it gently, his ear lowered closer to the cooler. His ear was met with the hallow slush of ice and water. Gil placed it on his desk, taking a pair of gloves and snapping them on. Slowly, Gil opened the cooler and peered inside. The water and ice was tinted a pink, almost rusty color and reeked of blood. Inside, on the bottom of the murky red water, was a small object. Gil fished it out with his fingers. The object was a severed finger, sliced cleanly at the third digit.

"What a gift," he mused, standing up with the finger in hand. As he stood, the letter fell onto the floor, upside down. Gil bent down to pick it up, but stopped when he noticed the picture attached to the back. It was a picture of a Detective, wearing a New York issued crime scene uniform.

"Mac?" he asked out loud, picking the picture up and examining it closely. "Mac Taylor!"

Gil hurriedly walked towards the prints lab, still holding the severed finger. As he walked, he passed by Nick Stokes, nearly running into him.

"Woah, chief, where's the fire?" Nick asked his flustered boss. Gil turned to Nick, holding the finger up.

"I just received a present," he said.

Nick looked at the finger for a moment. "That's not one of your usual gifts. Normally it's bugs or something…"

"Yes, well, I need to run the print through AFIS." With that, Gil continued his way to the prints lab.

Inside the lab, he rolled the tip of the finger on the ink pad, then rolled it on the paper, leaving the black print. Then, he put the print into the scanner and waited for it to appear on the screen. Shortly after, Gil chose the option to run through all government personnel, primarily New York officers. It would take a while for AFIS to run through all of the prints, so he took a seat and examined the finger.

It was small, like a woman's. He remembered Mac Taylor being in the Marines, so there was no doubt that his mind would be bigger with larger knuckles and leathery skin. So it was unlikely that it was his. Whose could it be that was related in some way to Mac Taylor?

After what seemed like an eternity, the print came back to no match. That confirmed that it wasn't Mac's.

Gil sighed and ran a hand through his thinning, gray hair. "I think it's time to give my old friend a call," he told himself.


End file.
